My Song of Lament

I have a urinary tract infection.  I get them every so often and haven't had one in a while.  I noticed I was peeing like every 5 minutes yesterday and I felt like crap.  Ugh.  But did it have to be *this* week?  I had a few unexpected bills crop up and I don't get paid until the 15th.  I asked my pharmacist and she told me to buy some AZO and some cranberry pills until I could get to a doctor.  I asked her if she knew of anyone who could write a prescription for antibiotics without actually seeing me.  I knew what I had and what I needed, I just needed someone to write it.  She referred me to a doctor who does walk-ins.  She asked if I wanted her to call and ask how much it would be.  I said yes.  He said $40.  Normally it would be $60 but he'd take off $20.  But $40 is still more than I have in my checking account.  And so I made the phone call I dreaded to make.  I explained the situation to my parents.

I lost my health insurance when I quit my last job.  The new job doesn't offer it and at the moment I can't afford to sign up for government health care.  My mom said she would put some money in my account Friday afternoon after my dad got paid.  My dad is 70 and still working 40 hours a week to keep my parents afloat and here I am living off of them when they are both on social security.  It stings.  This is not the life I imagined.  This is not what I signed up for.

And so I woke up early and made it to the doctor's office right at 9 when they opened.  When I stepped off the bus, I burst into tears.  I knew I was about to walk into a doctor's office and beg for mercy.  By the time I figured out where I was supposed to be, it was a full on ugly cry.  I have passed this office more times that I can count and never noticed it.  It's shoved in among a beer mart, mobile phone store, and a handful of takeout restaurants.  It's not at all marked.  I walk in the door to this multi level building that is not handicapped accessible.  I opened the door.  The first thing I notice is the smell.  It smells strongly of industrial strength cleaner/ deodorizer.  Like someone tried too hard to make it smell clean.  I finally find the right door, I compose myself and I walk in.  It's a dimly lit place with a woman sitting behind a plexiglass window.  The waiting room is full of mismatched furniture but it is neat and tidy. She finally looks up from her cell phone and asks what she can do for me.  I burst into tears again.  I tell her about the conversation yesterday and tell her "but I don't have any money.  Can I either write you a check to cash later on today, pay half now and half on my lunch break, or I can just fill out the paperwork now and come back later to see the doctor".  She tells me to wait while she asks the doctor.  She comes back and says I can pay half now and half later.  I fill out the paperwork and then wait my turn.  She instructs me to go into the bathroom and pee in a cup and leave it on the back of the toilet.  It was literally a clear solo cup and the bathroom was reminiscent of a gas station bathroom.  And not the Wawa ones or Sheetz ones.  I cry harder.  This is not the life I imagined.  This is not what I signed up for.

It doesn't take long for them to call me back.  The doctor, a very slight man, tells me I am "very sick".  Well at least I'm not wasting money here... He takes out a blank sheet of notebook paper and begins writing.  "Do you have any drug allergies?" "Codeine and prozac".  "Family history?" "Yes." "For what?" "Literally everything." "You need to lose weight" (there it is). "I know.  I'm down 45 lbs".  His desk was a pile of papers and various prescription paraphernalia and freebies given by drug reps in the era of time gone by.  No computers.  Just a small man hand writing notes on notebook paper.  He writes me a prescription for antibiotics and tells me that normally it would be a 3 day thing but he really thinks I need it for 7 days.

Sure, I felt sorry enough for myself but I also acknowledged my privilege.  A week from now I will be signing up for health insurance and have enough money to pay all my bills and pay my parents back.  But this particular doctor specializes in helping the unhoused and undocumented folks in the area.  I get to go there once.  But many people have to go there because they have no other choice.  I don't have to choose between paying the doctor and paying my rent.  I don't have to choose the doctor over food.  And I get to come home to my house that is heated and has running water.  I get to sit on my bed, pull out my computer and lament.

But it didn't make peeing into a solo cup any easier. 

Can I Ask You A Personal Question?

I hate summer.  It's like communism.  Good in theory, horrible in practice.  Sure, I am excited that my hair stops being static-y and that baseball is back but then there's the humidity.  One coat of deodorant is not enough and I constantly want to wash my face.  The air conditioning at work is hit or miss but I am a firm believer that it is better to be cold than hot.  If I am cold, I can put on more layers.  If I am hot, there is only so much I can remove before it becomes obscene.  Which, actually, brings me to today's story.

I was at work this week.  For those who don't know or forgot, I work in a pharmacy.  A lady came to drop off a prescription.  She kind of looks around and says, "can I ask you a question"?  I replied, "of course!" She looks a little sheepish and says "it's sort of a personal question".  I get those all the time.  Especially this time of year.  I am the only female in the pharmacy so all of the "feminine care" questions come to me.  I am expecting something about preventing yeast infections or something about sweat "down there".  Yup.  It happens.  Anyway, apparently she wasn't talking about personal for her, she meant personal for me.  "Do you have problems with your legs?"  I was caught off guard.  "What do you mean?" "Well I noticed you are a... big girl... and you are on your feet a lot.  Do you have any problems with your legs hurting or varicose veins?"  

My internal monologue was racing.  But I chose to take the high road and tell her the truth.  "Nope.  I've been in this business for 13 years and I don't have one varicose vein."  Her face dropped.  "I've got varicose veins and I am too ashamed to show my legs in public.  I just see you're wearing something shorter and I thought how nice it is that you don't feel the need to hide your legs.  It's nice that you don't care what other people think and that you wear what you are comfortable in."  Ok see that's when she crossed the line.  But I am going to put a marker there and tell you my response to her in a minute.  But two other incidents happened yesterday that caused me to write about this.

Sitting in Weight Watchers yesterday and my super upbeat meeting leader always asks us what we are celebrating this week.  It can be something involving the scale (like me losing 2.2 lbs despite being at Conference last weekend and having the diet of an unsupervised child at a birthday party) but it can also be "I said no to working on my day off". (Yea that happened too).  A woman raised her hand.  She's got to be 75-100 lbs lighter than me.  She's a person that if you saw her on a street corner, you would never guess she ever came to Weight Watchers.  But I know better than to "skinny shame" anyone.  I don't know her struggle.  But she raised her hand and said "I wore shorts in public for the first time in... I can't remember".  She told her story of the shame she felt in wearing shorts.  And then another girl spoke up.  Not that either of these two girls' body types matter but she was at least 50-75 lbs lighter than me.  "I bought a crop top and I had the guts to wear it in public.  I wore it with a high waisted skirt so it wasn't like my skin was exposed but I still got the guts to wear it".  These girls made my heart ache.

Listen.  Going back to the woman who asked me "a personal question", I do actually care a lot about what people think.  Being a future pastor and knowing that I can get denied ordination for what I look like (no, I'm not kidding about that), I do care about how I present myself.  But I will tell you exactly what I told Miss Nosy-pants.  I told her "it's hot.  And I am fat..." she immediately jumped in "no, I didn't meant to call you..." I cut her off.  "No, it's ok.  I am fat.  And it's hot out.  And I will be damned if I am going to let someone else's standards of beauty limit what I wear".  "That's a great attitude..." I cut her off again.  "I'm not done.  I am so tired of people feeling like they have to cover themselves up to please other people.  I am overweight.  I am fat.  I have fat legs.  I have fat arms.  That is not a surprise to anyone.  What would be surprising is if I had super thin arms and legs.  But it is too damn hot to be worried if my fat appendages offend someone".  She made a comment about how she wishes she could have my attitude and then left.  I am not really sure whether that was to be a compliment or an insult but in any event, I chose to take it as a compliment.  

I've never seen myself as a champion for body positivity but I have heard WAY too many overweight girls (understanding that not everyone embraces the word "fat" like I do) say "I can't wear that.  I'm too fat" And I have heard WAY too many thin girls say they hate their arms and legs because they are "too bony" and that they can't wear shorts or skirts because their legs "look like sticks".  And frankly, I have had it.  I grew up in a household where I was told (among other things) that I couldn't wear jeans because "fat people don't look good in them".  I couldn't have specific toys because I was "too big".  Ok, that may have been a little legit but I am tired of being told I "can't" or "shouldn't" wear something because of my size.  Be comfortable.  Be who you are.  Wear what you want.  Because it is too damn hot to worry about someone else's standard of beauty.

So as we head into the dog days of summer, let's all make a pact to not judge other people's clothes.  Unless it supports Donald Trump.  Then judge away.

Carry on.